Blithe Spirit
by Ursula4x
Summary: Neal disappears during a case. Peter, El, and Satchmo seem to be haunted by him. This is a WIP, but I am reliable about finishing things. Preslash probably, but nothing overt
1. Chapter 1

Title: Blythe Spirit

Author: Ursula

Rating: rating:

Genre and/or Pairing:

Notes:

Spoilers:

Warnings: No warnings to protect plot

Word Count:

Summary:

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including Jeff Eastin and USA television. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

OooOooO

It wasn't even supposed to be dangerous. The case involved an older con man who was as affable as Neal. Neal had recognized the modality immediately and told Peter where to find the aging maestro. Given the age and the peaceful career of Mr. Frederick Starr, Peter didn't bring backup. He expected an easy arrest.

Arriving, Peter found Fred Starr packing his luggage. The motel room was starkly furnished, cleaner than the one in which Peter tried to dump Neal, but the coverlet was cheap and getting thread-bare. The furnishings were battered by years of use and the paint grown drab. Peter saw Neal's eyes taking it in and saw them grow dark. Starr had once been as famous as Neal, perpetuating hundreds of successful scams. Millions of dollars must have passed through his hands.

"I have a warrant for your arrest, Frederick Hale Starr," Peter said formally. "You have the right to remain silent." Peter could have read the man his rights when half asleep.

"You don't understand," Starr said. "There are some guys after me."

"Part of the risks of your job."

Peter eyed Neal who lifted his chin, refusing to take the silent rebuke. He put the cuffs on, searched him even though he knew the man did not use weapons, and then gripped the man's arm to lead him down the stairs. Neal followed. As they stepped out into the overgrown courtyard of the motel, Peter heard shouts and then there was a gun shot. He grabbed his prisoner and hurled him to safety behind the fountain. He called for back up instantly.

"Keep an eye on Starr," Peter shouted, pegging a shot at head showing from behind a car.

A few moments later, as NYPD sirens sounded, Peter heard Neal shout. His partner sprinted after Starr, taking Peter's admonition too literally. Peter tried to follow, but when he scurried after them, a fiery streak ran along his head. Peter thudded to the ground.

OooOooO

A week later, Peter pushed a stack of reports off his desk, buried his face in his hands. No Neal.

Starr had turned up. Dead. Moz found information that Starr had scammed a Russian mobster, Gregorovitch. Peter must have been one step before them when he went to arrest the elderly con man. Neal's anklet had been tossed out in the street along with Neal's fedora which was spotted with blood.

Moz's hysterical reaction was enough to tell Peter that this was not a planned disappearance.

As days went by, Peter was increasingly sure that Neal was dead.

El was inconsolable.

Satchmo had taken to wagging his tail while staring at unoccupied areas of the house, including the corner of the couch that had been Neal's favorite. Every time it happened, El burst into fresh tears.

Somehow, Peter knew Neal would break their hearts. He just didn't know how.

WIP

Two weeks had passed. June had invited Moz to occupy Neal's apartment and had called Peter twice to suggest a memorial service for Neal. Peter had to apologize the second time. He yelled no so loud that Satchmo whimpered and went to hide in his crate.

Sleep was elusive. Peter paced for hours. He plowed through clues that were not much more than wild speculations.

Peter tracked Alex down. She reported knowing nothing. Who knew...she was not an honest source, but she hit Peter and blamed him for Neal's death so perhaps she was not lying.

His head on a pile of files, Peter smiled at the gentle touch on his shoulder, the fingers carded through his hair, the soft kiss on his cheek...El should shave and when had she started using Neal's after shave?

Waking, Peter found no El. He could still smell Neal's aftershave.

OooOooO

By week number three, Hughes had given up on Neal. He didn't tell Peter to close the case, but suggested he minimize the use of FBI resources.

Peter's main efforts were spent on finding Gregorovitch, but the mobster had gone deep under. Moz popped up in odd places, haunting Peter. He was standing outside the FBI agents where he had once stealthily met Neal. He was in Time Square where Peter had to go to attend a training session. He turned up in Peter's dining room, eating El's sandwiches and moping.

"Suit, you're not trying," Moz said. "You have to find him. He's out there."

"I'm fresh out of leads."

"You're going to make me do this myself, aren't you?"

"Haversham, don't. Don't throw yourself after Neal."

"You don't get it, do you?" Moz said. "I need Neal."

Standing up, Peter shoved his chair back. It fell, clattering to the floor. "Don't you think I need him too?"

The house smothered him. Peter walked out, ignoring Satchmo's whine to go with him. He walked for hours until rain and darkness sent him home. Moz was gone. El was in bed with Satchmo in Peter's spot. He took it as a message and went to the guest room. The sheets had been less occupied by Neal, but El was a house keeping fiend. Not one trace of Neal's scent remained.

Neal was speaking. He was in a room that Peter had never seen. He was painting, but he was not in a happy state. He gazed at Peter and shook his head. The room had heavy red brocade curtains. They were open, displaying bars. Neal's mouth moved, but Peter could not hear his words no matter how much he strained. "I miss you," Peter said. "I miss you."

When Peter woke, El crowded him on the bed. Her arm was across him. Satchmo slept with his nose wedged into Peter's side, half sitting, half leaning. Neal's fedora was on Peter's pillow. He had it cleaned and repaired after evidence released it. It had been in the downstairs closet on the top shelf. He had no idea how it fell from the shelf, but it was slightly damp so Satchmo had carried it to the bed. Poor dog missed Neal terribly.

He wasn't alone.

OooOooO

The lack of sleep had taken a toll on Peter. He must have drifted off for a moment because now there was a cup of coffee sitting next to him. He took a sip and set the cup down, hands shaking. It was the Italian roast from June's place. Neal periodically brought some in and made a special pot of coffee for Peter and himself. Peter recovered. Neal must have secreted some away and Jones must have found it.

Clinton came in with a stack of reports.

"Thank you," Peter said. "I really needed the coffee. Where did you find Neal's special supply?"

"Huh?" Jones said. "We were all in a mandatory personnel meeting."

Brushing by Jones, Peter searched the break room, finding no trace of the aromatic blend nor was there one of the waxed paper bags in the trash. None of the pots contained anything more than the cheap, bitter grounds that seemed to be the only thing that the office coffee contributions could buy. On the counter, however, was an origami swan.

Peter checked the security cameras. One moment the counter held nothing more than dirty coffee cups waiting for the mothers who did not work there and the next it held the swan. Peter ignored the ice cold trail freezing his spine and told himself someone doctored the tape.

Bastards.

OooOooO

It was driving Peter mad.

He found a stack of cold files with notes in Neal's neat handwriting. Neal could have worked on them before he disappeared, but no one admitted them to putting them on Peter's desk. Peter tried to blame his mysterious opponents, but could find no explanation why they might want to help him.

It could be gas lighting, but seemed an oddly helpful technique. Peter assigned the cases, ignoring the strange looks from Jones and Diana. Both of them recognized Neal's handwriting and both of them found it disturbing that Neal was still consulting, possibly from beyond the grave.

OooOooO

Peter's job has no mercy. You couldn't stop because your heart is broken, because you were weary, because a case didn't end the way you hoped.

He was not allowed the time or grace to mourn.

El worried that his depression, his lack of sleep would throw him off. Peter thought she might be right. He'd tell her if he got out of this situation.

Peter cast a worried look at Jones, who was still unconscious, but equally tied up. Having learned his lesson, losing Neal, possibly forever by going without backup, Peter always had one of his agents with him these days. Unfortunately, the abandoned warehouse proved not to be abandoned. He and Jones were out-muscled by a trio of goons, directed by a counterfeiter who didn't mind assault on a federal agent as part of his future rap sheet. Jones had taken a blow to the head as had Peter, but as Hughes and El could tell anyone; Peter was a hard-headed man.

His stubborn nature was not overcoming the bonds on his ankles and wrists. The hired thugs knew what they were doing. They had made sure Peter's thumbs were incapacitated as well. From what Peter heard when he was feigning unconsciousness, the only reason Jones and he were alive was as hostages if other agents were in route. Unfortunately, unless Diana realized that Jones and he usually would have called in by now, that was unlikely.

Surrender was not in Peter's nature. He kept working the ropes despite the way it was chaffing his wrists bloody. He closed his eyes fighting to free himself. Neal's aftershave wafted from no where and he felt lips brush his forehead before the ropes fell away. One of his captors walked toward him menacingly, his squeaking shoes would have been amusing except for the gun in his hands.

There was a clacking sound and the plastic pipes which were stored in tall racks rolled down, some of them seemed to be moving with unnatural velocity. Next to Peter, Jones woke and said, "Geez, I'm awake, Neal. What the..."

Jones brought his wrists around and stared at them. He glanced at Peter and both of them dived for the gun which came skittering their way. Peter got it first and, an instant later, fired at another of Malone's henchmen. He actually fired at the man's chest as he was trained, but amazingly, his bullet hit the man's gun, sending it spinning away under one of the racks. The man dropped to on knee, holding his hand and swearing.

The third man was smarter and held his distance as Peter and Jones sought cover. Outside, sirens wailed.

The remaining thug must have decided that retreat was the best bet. He dodged away, but another rack of plastic pipes fell. One of the pipes seemed to aim carefully and landed on the man's head. It wedged over his head despite his attempts to fend it off.

Jones remarked, "I am not seeing this."

Moments later, Diana ran in with the rest of the team and NYPD officers. "We caught Malone. He fell over a concrete block and broke his leg. Where's Neal?"

"Neal?" Peter said, looking around. There was nothing but the first thug crawling on his hands and knees out of the mound of plastic pipes and the second unfortunate man, holding his arms high, the pipe still stuck on his head.

"Neal called to say you needed help. He gave this address and warned us that Malone was armed and would be fleeing out the back."

"Neal was not here," Peter said.

"Not in body," Jones said. He looked heavenward and said, "Thanks, buddy."

Peter could not thank Neal. To do so was to acknowledge he would never see Neal in person again, never put an arm around his shoulder or give him that first kiss which seemed inevitable.

"It must have been some good Samaritan that sounded like Neal."

"Right, boss," Dianna said.

"It could happen."

"I know."

"Because Neal's not dead so he can't be a ghost."

Jones interrupted to say, "Why couldn't he be? It's not as if Neal ever obeyed the rules."

OooOooO

Moz never looked precisely healthy. He had a greenish pallor at times and Peter remembered Uncle Fester from childhood reruns of the Addams Family when he thought about Moz too long.

Still, the dark circles had never been as exaggerated as they were now. Moz's eyes looked like a raccoon's.

The man would ordinarily not be someone who Peter found frightening. Finding Moz sitting in your own living room, his white skin fluorescing from the light was another matter.

Peter reached for the gun that even he would not have in his pajamas.

Dolefully, Moz said, "I found a lead on Gregorovitch. I'm going deep to follow it."

Recovering from his surprise and wondering how he find a better home security system, Peter said, "I can't let you do that."

"I wasn't asking. I'm only telling you because Neal lo...liked you."

Tossing Peter a cell phone, Moz walked out of the house, shoulders slumped, chin tucked.

Closing his eyes, Peter clenched his fists in the dark. He could only hope that St. Nicholas, the patron saint of thieves, would protect Moz and Neal too.

He knew he could stop Moz but he couldn't make himself. If Peter couldn't find Neal, perhaps his Moz could.

OooOooO

Jones looked up as Peter entered. "This looks like Neal's work."

Picking up the file Jones handed him, Peter scanned the few pages and said, "Yes, it does."

The theft of a Russian Icon of Saint Nicholas wasn't front page news. It was actually in the arts and cultural section of the Times. It was an elegant little piece of work. The substitution of a fake would never have been caught except that the icon fell during a cleaning. The curator noticed that there was a new inscription. It had said in Russian: St. Nicholas bless and protect us.

The new inscription invoked Saint Peter instead.

It clicked in Peter's head. Few facts were known about Gregorovitch, but the one that stood out was that the man was Russian Orthodox and was, perversely, given his occupation and history, very religious.

"Saint Nicholas was the Patron Saint of thieves."

"What now we got to contend with saints protecting these guys?" Jones complained.

"The patronage was the result of a story about the saint reforming two young thieves so he is on our side. He helps reform thieves."

"Kind of like Neal and us."

Peter shook his head, not so much because he disagreed, but because, despite being a lapsed Catholic, he found himself making silent prayers for Neal's safe return.

"Let's go have a look at the forgery."

OooOooO

The curator was a pale blond and slight man. He had an English accent, but a Russian name, Kuryakin.

"Nick Kuryakin," the man said.

"You seem familiar," Peter mused.

"Oh, you must be thinking about my father or my uncle. They were rather famous in their day."

"Hmm," Peter said, still not making the connection.

"I have the forgery in my office."

It was hanging on the wall.

At Peter's stern glance, Kuryakin shrugged, giving a diffident smile that was almost as charming as Neal's brain bombarding grin. He said, "It's still a beautiful work. I would never presume to hang the original, but this is another thing."

Putting on gloves, Peter took down the icon. There were no finger prints. That had already been checked. Peter was looking for something else.

It took a borrowed magnifying glass, but Peter found it. In the detail of Saint Nicholas's bishop's miter, there was a repeated pattern that one could imagine were the initials, NC.

Peter's hands trembled. He carefully handed the icon to Kuryakin and placed the magnifying glass on his desk, before covering his eyes with shaking hands. "Thank you. Thank you," he murmured prayerfully. He was not sure who he was thanking but it might have been Saint Nicholas into whose capable hands he placed Neal.

OooOooO

Tracing back, there had been two other icons of Saint Nicholas taken. One was from a private home, a treasured family heirloom that allegedly was looted from the Tsar's palace during the Russian revolution and carried to America during World War Two. This one was simply taken, no substitution.

The other was purloined from the Russian Orthodox Church in Saint Petersburg. The icon's loss went undiscovered for some time until one of the priests noticed that the hand folded over the scepter

Peter was granted a trip to Florida with both Diana and Jones. He was very pleased, considering the budget cuts, that he could take that much of his team. They flew on the government rate which meant that Jones and Peter felt as if they were squeezed into playground swings instead of airline seats. Diana sat between them and tried not to inhale too deeply.

The family which owned the heirloom icon was not wealthy. The owner was the wife. She wept as she showed Peter the blank space on the wall where the icon had hung. "It was not insured. The company said it was too valuable and we would have to have security systems in place. We could not afford it."

Ms. Shann had thick, graying blond hair that she kept in a thick cornet of braids. Her features were petite and still pretty. Her eyes reminded Peter of El's and Neal's, a shining electric blue. She was slender and graceful.

Mr. Shann had married up. He was thick set and burly, one of those guys who had was too manly to need a neck between his large head and massive shoulders. His nose had the telltale red of a heavy drinker. His eyes shifted when his wife sobbed. Peter's eyes roved around the room and lit on some racing forms. He moved toward them. There was a large stack, dated recently from .

"It's interesting," Peter said. He shuffled through the forms. "In all the other cases, the icon was replaced with a clever forgery."

"If I even had a copy, I would be happy," Ms. Shan said, sobbing, her gray dress bosom heaving.

"You gamble a lot," Peter directed at Mr. Shan.

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Over two thousands in bets."

"That much?" Ms. Shan said, her eyes flashing with some spirit at last. "Joe, you promised."

"I told you. I won big a couple weeks ago. It's my money. I can spend it how I like."

"I told you, Joe, you have to slow down. I didn't ask you to stop. I said don't gamble more than we can afford."

Wincing, Peter said, "There are gambling anonymous programs everywhere. The way I understand it, it's like any other addiction. You don't taper off. You quit and you stay quit."

"Getta outa my house," Joe Shan roared.

"I'm going to subpoena your bank records," Peter replied. He turned to leave.

Ms. Shan followed them out. She said, "I wanted to believe he finally won at the track. There was a small part of me that doubted. Now... I'll go with you to the bank and we can look at the records together. He doesn't like me to look at our account, but I have access."

The bank was a couple miles away. Ms. Shan drove Peter in her car, a battered Jetta. Peter left Diana and Jones behind to watch Joe harried bank manager was a large, balding black man. He looked at Ms. Shan's identification and then insisted on seeing the agents. Peter gave him points for that. There were few cases on record of people being forced to withdraw all of their money from banks under threat.

Diana called to say Joe Shan was at an ATM. Peter said, "Stall him."

"Sure, boss."

"No force," Peter reminded. Diana sometimes got a little testy with perps she thought were abusing woman.

A small sigh came over the phone. Diana said, "Okay, Boss."

Peter found a smile escaping him. He loved having Diana back. Now he needed Neal. The real Neal.

Turning back, Peter saw Ms. Shan weeping. He said, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I knew in my heart. He had overdrawn the account. He made a large deposit that cleared the overdraft and covered our bills. I'm going to take most of the money out and put it in another account. I can do that, can't I?"

"I'm not sure. I think you should talk to a lawyer."

The bank manager said, "There are several that rent suites on the next floor. I am sure that at least once might handle...domestic situations."

"Thanks," Ms. Shan said.

Peter stepped away to call Diana back. If Ms. Shan made her bank transfer, Peter didn't see it.

OooOooO

It was warm, silent, dark. Neal floated weightlessly. Was this heaven? Was this hell? There was no discomfort except a slight itching that disappeared. Neal opened his eyes widely, but it was still impossible to catch any glimmer of light.

The first stage was simply feeling relaxed. He was in no pain. He realized that he was naked, but felt no embarrassment. There was no one to see and besides he and Kate had often gone sun bathing on nude beaches to Moz's discomfort. Moz, of course, had refused to go.

Some time later, Neal yelled for help, to be out. He could not hear anything. The silence, the warmth, the floating were no longer comfortable. He would have scratched his own skin to have sensation but he could not move his arms more than a few inches. It was difficult to move at all. It felt as if he was drugged, but the distance feeling was not in his mind, but in his body. For the moment, other than the seeds of panic, his head seemed clear.

Hours...days went by.

Neal knew he slept at times. He was aware of times when he woke, no longer hungry. He missed being hunger. Hunger was a sensation. Hunger said you lived and felt.

The fullness led to the inevitable, but Neal was not aware of voiding, just that he would wake with his bladder and bowels empty.

Neal tried to fill his mind with memories. He heard noises, strange roaring, panting sounds that he knew were not real, but which made his heart pound anyway. He sensed evil out there...beyond the void. It crawled along his skin like a lingering offensive touch.

As the fear became overwhelming, Neal suddenly was elsewhere. He was in Peter and El's living room. They did not see him, but Satchmo did, barking his greeting and wagging his tail hard.

"Good, Satchmo! Now if you were Lassie, you would find a way to tell Peter I needed help. Come on, boy, Neal's in the well."

Satchmo wagged his tell fiercely and wiggled to be petted. Neal reached out with ethereal hands. He could feel nothing at first, but as he concentrated, he felt warm fur and the sweetness of petting a happy dog. It was something, something to help him endure.

It took less and less effort to get back to Peter's house. Neal stood over Peter, asleep, worry crease still on his forehead, and could not help reaching for him, patting his shoulder, smoothing Peter's hair with tender and yearning fingers. He had never kissed Peter before, but now he leaned down, kissed Peter's cheek. He was worried about his friend and couldn't ask him for help.

Before Neal could decide what to do next, he was dragged, sucked back into this body. Something was happening. He felt the liquid in which he was floating draining. His skin felt chilled for the first time ...in a long time.

The darkness was lifted. It probably not very bright in the room, but any light at all, hurt Neal's eyes. He lifted a hand, covered his eyes.

Brutal hands pulled Neal from his bed, which, glancing back, was shaped like a large coffin with tubes coming out of it. The lid had a divided hatch. Neal realized how his wastes were removed while he slept.

"My young friend, it is time you started earning your keep."

The oldest of the three men in the room was well dressed. He wore a Tessori Uumo suit in beige with a black shirt. No designer shirt could soften his predatory look.

"Shower."

Neal's captor's order was quickly obeyed. The hench men were identical twins, not large men, but very muscle or. They were blond, grey eyed, with very pale skin. Both had sleeves of tattoos that Neal recognized as associated with Russian mobs. Stupid to mark yourselves as criminals, but it was part of the culture, a macho flaunting of their lack of fear of the law.

Legs weak and shaky, Neal was led to the shower. One of the twins started the shower and the other guided him into the spray. The hand held nozzle scoured the slime of something salty from his skin.

The older man said, "My wife had fibromyalgia and this was a recommended treatment. She also had a weak heart which gave out on her when one of my former employees failed to get her out in time. I should have disposed of the tank, but it was very expensive and I am not a man who wastes money. How fortunate I thought of a way to use it."

Neal was allowed to dress and then was brought to a room upstairs with an easel and artistic supplies. He also saw an antique slab of wood and paints he recognized as specific to those used to create Russian icons.

"The painting is in the Russian national museum," Neal's captor said. He smiled and said, "You may call me Sir or Mr. Gregorovitch."

The painting was by Ilya Repin and pictured St. Nicholas saving three innocents from death. Repin was of the realistic school of Russian artists and the painting had a photographic feel to it.

"You will take your time with the reproduction. Meanwhile there are some icons that I need copied. The materials are ready."

Neal didn't argue. His senses were swooning with the smell of paint. His art as always was release to him. He fled to the freedom of creation.

Left alone, Neal checked to find bars and tell tales of a security system. He opened the door to find two more identical twin guards, these bearded brutes who would have looked at home in a painting of Cossacks.

Neal waved fingers at the men and said, "Just checking."

"Gregorovitch said to remind you that the tank awaits."

Neal went back to his work.

OooOooO


	2. Chapter 2

OooOooO

Saint Andrews was a pale reflection of the church of the same name in St. Petersburg Russia, but it was well designed. Peter fought the urge to cross himself. It was hard to leave old habits behind. He had been an altar boy and very devout until college.

The art work made up for the comparative lack of exotic embellishments on the outside. The walls were lined with priceless icons. If the thief were after expensive art work, he should have taken all of these. There were ample greedy collectors who would hoard the art, gleeful at having it and not minding that only a select few would ever see its beauty again.

The priest had eyes as blue as Neal's. He had a long beard and looked much like one of the icons on the wall which was meant to represent St. Peter.

"I'm Father Anatoli."

"Peter Burke."

"I don't understand why you are here after all the other policemen have invaded my church."

"I work differently. There might be something they missed. I need to place the evidence at the scene and try to understand how the crime might have happened."

Father Anatoli showed Peter where the icon had hung. "It was hung here soon after the church opened. A Russian family smuggled it out of the old country, their only treasure, and donated to the church once we erected the first humble shelter for our lord."

At the priest's desk, Peter sat in the guest chair to examine the pictures of the icon.

On the original, St. Nicholas held the scepter with all of the fingers clenched around the gilded wood. In the copy, St. Nicholas was portrayed with nearly open fingers as if about to drop it.

"It's a subtle difference," Peter remarked.

The priest said, "I pray in front of each icon every day, contemplating the special petitioners that each saint watches over. St. Nicholas watches over children. I pray longest at his station."

"He watches over thieves too," Peter reminded.

"Are you Catholic?"

Shrugging, Peter said, "I do my research."

"St. Nicholas helps thieves to repent their deeds."

"Yes, I know that," Peter said. "Did you notice anyone unusual in the church?"

"No, no strangers, unless it was with the tour group on Wednesday. Father Nikolai led that."

"I'll need to talk to him," Peter said.

"He's at the market," Father Anatoli said. He shrugged, adding, "In the old days, we always had a housekeeper. With the crisis of faith, there is little money. We do for ourselves. Would you like some tea?"

Peter preferred coffee, but he was respectful enough to accept the offer and thank the priest.

OooOooO

Father Nikolai arrived with armloads of groceries. Peter helped the priests carry the bags inside, feeling like he was fourteen and still a devout Catholic. As an altar boy, Peter had mown lawns, helped carry groceries into the rectory, and scrubbed the church benches once a week.

Father Nikolai was very handsome, with black curly hair and a ready smile. Peter smiled, sure that he was one of the draws to the church. Female parishioners usually had no serious intentions toward attractive priests, but they enjoyed looking, appreciating what had been sacrificed to God. Handsome priests attracted faithful female worshippers.

Father Nikolai said, "We have a security camera."

Father Anatoli shook his head, sending cookie crumbs flying from his beard. "That is Father Nikolai's weak faith. It was enough for God's eye to protect the precious art for a hundred years."

Nikolai rolled his brown eyes in a very un-priest like way. He said, "The pictures from the security camera may help solve the crime."

Peter had viewed the security feed the week before the icon's loss was discovered. Father Anatoli remembered making devotions the Sunday before and was sure painting had not been replaced on that day. He would have noticed the repositioned hand, he said. The local police had only taken the tapes from Sunday evening on. No one asked about any unusual events before the priest last saw the original icon.

In the priest's foyer, Peter viewed the security tape on an ancient TV set. He fast forwarded until he saw a man in a wheel chair. Although bundled in a blanket and a shawl that covered most of his face, the man glanced once directly at the security camera. Those intense blue eyes could only belong to Neal.

Peter felt like weeping again. Slightly over a week ago, Neal had been here. Peter noted the burly man pushing Neal's wheelchair. He didn't know the man, but he could bet that there was some file on the Russian mafia that held his image.

Peter said, "We're going to need this tape. Thank you, Fathers. I hope to have your icon back to you soon."

"Thank you, my son," Father Anatoli said. He peered in Peter's eyes and said, "Whatever caused your crisis in faith, look deeper. You may need God's help."

Peter jerked back. He recovered his composure and said, "I'll keep that in mind."

Nodding politely, Peter left the church with the tape in an evidence envelope.

OooOooO

"You did something," Gregorovitch snarled, his withered finger poking Neal in the chest.

Holding his hands up to proclaim his innocence, Neal replied, "Nothing that you didn't order. I did exactly what you wanted."

"Then why was your forgery discovered? Why is your FBI agent hot on the trail? You will learn, Mr. Caffrey!"

The bearded set of twins, Dima and Lev, grabbed Neal. He knew where they were headed, the basement. He didn't struggle. He was outmanned.

"Please don't," Neal begged, managing some tears. "Give me another chance."

"You need to meditate on your sins."

Shuddering, Neal let himself be manhandled to the elevator. A few days ago, Gregorovitch had told Neal that his wife had been reluctant to walk most of the time because of her pain, which was why he had installed the large elevator, able to host a wheel chair and an attendant. Now it served him just as well to escort a prisoner into what had become his torture chamber.

Gregorovitch had boasted, "Always whining about her pain. Must have been that noble blood of which she bragged. I, myself, am from good Russian peasant stock. Strong. Practical."

Neal was not allowed to undress himself. The rough hands were crude on his body. Dima, the more vocal of this set of twins, made lewd comments about Neal's physical attributes, his well-formed ass, and how popular he must have been in prison. Neal handled it. This type of verbal degradation was stock and trade of certain police officers, not Peter, of course, not HIS FBI agent.

It was nearly a relief to feel the warm salty water creep around him. Yes, Neal knew that he would be left in this floating world for days, possibly even weeks, but at the same time, he felt it was an escape. As soon as he surrendered to the dark silence, he would be free to go to Peter, Elizabeth, and Satchmo. He had tried to go to June's and to seek out Moz, but something drew him back to Peter instead.

This time, however, Neal popped into the office. He saw poor Peter, head in his hands, looking at stacks of reports. He went downstairs to check on his desk and found there were cold case files still waiting for him. He felt warmed by that. They expected him to return. To his surprise, the files moved when he forgot and raised a curious hand. He sat and flew through the cases, making notes at an impossible speed. He finished his work so quickly that Peter had barely read through half of his reports. Poor guy looked as if he badly needed coffee. Neal traveled to the break room, curious as to why no one seemed to be at their desks. The coffee pots were all empty. He wrinkled his nose at the coffee grounds available, wishing for June's Italian roast. The filter he took out filled with dark, fragrant roast, the grounds sparkling like little gems. He smiled and made a small pot of coffee. When it was finished, he filled Peter's mug and brought it upstairs. Peter was resting his eyes as he called it. When Neal did it, it was 'stop sleeping on the job'.

Neal would give almost anything to feel Peter's touch again. To see Peter's eyes light when he saw him the way they did. He wanted to return in body to where his heart led him.

Someone had left a pretty gold wrapper on the counter. Neal's hands formed it into a swan. The swan was a message to Peter that Neal was as loyal to Peter as a swan was to his mate.

Returning to Peter's side, Neal set down the coffee mug and whispered 'You're the only one."

It was true. Peter woke, looking about as if he heard Neal's voice. He couldn't see Neal, but shuddered when Neal tried to squeeze his arm. He looked in that direction.

Jones came bounding into the office, distracting Peter and annoying Neal who felt that it was possible Peter might have heard him speak if not interrupted.

Listening to Peter and Jones try to figure out where the coffee came from was fun. It reminded Neal of wishing as a child to be invisible so he could steal into places and take what he wanted, a wish he had achieved in his criminal career minus the invisibility. He had also dreamed of the mischief he could create if adults could not see him. There had been a pompous social worker that Neal would have put a clown nose on. He had a mean foster father whose beer Neal would have liked to upend on his head. Neal waited for Peter to go home, eavesdropping on Hughes, checking on his favorite support staff, and jotting notes in the file room on some additional cold cases.

El called two times, not like her. She sometimes called once to ask Peter if he wanted to have dinner with her. She never importuned. She was too much her own woman for that. Hearing Peter say, 'I just have a few things to do first.', Neal was exasperated. Peter needed to go home. Besides Neal wanted to see El and Satchmo while his spirit was free to roam wherever Peter went.

Peter stood up, but didn't reach for his coat. He took his mug with him so he must be going either to refill it or wash it.

Neal checked the terminal seeing that Peter was reviewing Gregorovitch's information. Ah, so Peter knew who had taken Neal.

The problem was that Gregorovitch had numerous residences. The one in which Neal was imprisoned had numerous layers of names between the Russian mobster and the name on the title. Peter did not have the connection. Neal had not yet found out whose name was on the tax records or he could have left Peter a note. Carefully, Neal saved Peter's information, shut down the terminal, and then took Peter's coat from the hanger, draping it over his friend's chair. It was mildly disturbing when Neal realized his hands actually went through the coat. He concentrated until it looked right to him as he physically was moving the garment instead of...well, whatever he was doing.

Neal's grandmother had always said that he could do anything if he set his mind to it. She was certainly right!

Ah, the expression on Peter's face when he saw his coat ready for him and his computer off.

Almost worth this ethereal half life...

OooOooO

Neal automatically reached for his seatbelt when he followed Peter into the car. It took a moment to realize that he had no real body to protect. He leaned back, gazing at Peter, anchoring himself to this man he loved in so many ways.

However, love only can last you so long. Neal started to gleefully fiddle with the GPS, making it point over and over again to June's. Peter noticed, reset, then chewed his lip before he drove to June's.

Ah, home, Neal wished he could kiss June and he did brush his lips across the aristocratic cheekbone of her right side, her best side, she always said. She frowned, reached up and touched the very place he kissed.

"When you're here, Peter, I always feel that Neal is close. Dear, have you had any thoughts about the memorial?"

"No, because I will find him. Believe me. I would know if Neal was gone. He isn't. Someone has him, June, and I will not rest until I find him.

Lovely, stubborn, relentless Peter...Neal had always known that they had an inescapable relationship. He was just glad that it was now no longer one of cop against criminal. It was better being on the same side.

Neal found he could leave Peter's side so he drifted upstairs to check on his belongings. He could tell Moz had been staying here, the bed was rumpled. Several books they both loved sat next to the bed on the antique table. Moz had added a few strokes to a painting Neal had left on the easel. Their styles blended beautifully.

Poor Moz.

Neal didn't quite understand why he was bound to Peter. He would have liked to have spoken to Moz, reassuring his friend that he would be back.

Maybe he could. Neal added brushstrokes to the painting, working on it until he felt dizzy for a moment, stabilizing to find himself sitting in the Taurus. He hadn't even had time to clean his brushes. He resentfully stared at Peter, forgetting his partner could not see him.

Peter turned the GPS off and muttered, "If you're trying to give me a clue, Neal, try harder."

Hey, Peter had talked to him!

OooOooO


	3. Chapter 3

OooOooO

Drifting in Peter's footsteps, Neal felt as if he was coming home and frowned at the idea. Home had meant nothing to him in the past. It was wherever Moz and Kate were. Oh, sometimes he dreamed of having a beautiful house somewhere safe, but in reality, it would have never worked. Kate was restless and she would never have been content in one place.

Moz would have hated having a real address. That's how they find you, he always said.

Until his friendship with Peter and El, Neal had never yearned for suburbia. The very thought repelled him. He chastised himself for his lack of imagination, not a frequent sin on his part. He has mistaken conventional trappings as all that there was to be seen. He had not realized that there could be unique, passionate people beneath.

Peter's suits, his inexpensive haircuts, and nondescript ties were a thin brushstroke over the masterpiece beneath.

As for El, put her anywhere and she was the finest, most lush beauty that Neal had ever seen. Unlike most of the women that Neal had dated, she had real curves and genuine smiles, unafraid that her laugh lines would age her. Oh, how wrong the focus on flawless was! Even the Mona Lisa was fraught with imperfection which merely enhanced the whole.

Knowing the Burkes had given Neal new respect for ordinary people or perhaps, it was that he found a new fascination with the world. Especially now, knowing his body floated in a tank and that his only connection to life was through this miracle of out of body experiences, Neal realized he had grown jaded before prison, seeking refined pleasures and finding that one taste was all he could stomach before finding them bland. Imprisoned, Neal had little choice to endure monotonous food, clothing, and less than ideal companionship.

Neal had encountered individuals in his former life that he did not like, but until prison, he had not realized how much he despised the criminal element with rare exceptions such as Kate, Moz, and Alex.

Neal enjoyed the good life; he felt entitled to it, but he always thought of his crimes as being victimless. It was all a game, pitting Neal against the world. Peter made the stakes higher and was the competition Neal craved. That did not end well except it did. Neal found his time with Peter happy. If there had never been a Kate, he might have no real complaints at all.

OooOooO

Satchmo greeted Peter as if the sun had rose and steak had fallen like manna. Neal understood the feeling.

After greeting Peter, Satchmo wiggled his way to Neal. Both Peter and El cast wary eyes on Satchmo's wagging tail and tongue licking air. Peter said, "Vet."

El's expression was troubled as she replied, "I don't think that the vet has a cure for the supernatural."

"Do dogs have psychologists?"

"I think so, but, Peter..."

Fending off the unwanted thought with outstretched hands, Peter shook his head. "I won't believe it. I can't start to believe it."

Hugging Satchmo who whined at the vehemence in his master's tone, Neal wished Peter would accept that there were things beyond his knowledge. Maybe then Peter would really hear Neal and Neal could tell him where to find him before something worse happened.

OooOooO

There was a blank period for Neal. He either was awake or asleep; he wasn't sure if his spirit roamed free when he was awake or asleep in the isolation tank. All he knew is there were periods of time when he knew nothing but the warm water, the absence of sensation, and the loneliness. Other times, there was nothing. The best of times was when the essence of him traveled to where his heart knew best, to Peter and El.

This time however, Neal popped out of his body, feeling as if Peter had called him, that Peter needed him. He felt disorientated for a few seconds before he took in his setting, a dark warehouse, furnished with racks, some of which still had plastic pipes stacked on them. Peter sat in a decrepit office chair, his hands bound behind him so thoroughly that he couldn't even move his thumbs. That didn't stop Peter from struggling however.

Neal wanted to be with Peter and he was, no sense of movement, no time expended. This time he had to struggle to have an impact on the material world, perhaps because he felt so much fear for Peter and for Jones who was also a prisoner. Neal kissed Peter's sweaty forehead, tasting briefly salt and essence of Burke. He moved through Peter, which gave him a jolt as he tended to think of his ectoplasm as real. Neal's hands were as clever without a body as they were with one. He tugged here and there, making the ropes fall away. Peter couldn't repress a startled sound although he did keep his hands behind him.

A sharp eyed captor walked toward Peter, his eyes on the ropes which had fallen to the floor.

Thinking was doing. Neal pushed a rack of pipes to the floor, creating a cascade of sound which drew everyone's attention from Peter. To further distract, Neal imagined himself shoving the pipes as hard as he could. Some of them bounced off the floor and kept going in the direction of Peter's captors. Neal slipped a cell phone out of the nearest of the criminal's pocket.

No kiss for Jones, but Neal yelled in his ear, "Wake up. You have to get away."

Freeing Jones took seconds. Jones woke, complaining. ""Geez, I'm awake, Neal. What the..."

By the time, Jones woke, Neal had saw an opportunity as a tall, thin man dropped his gun. Neal shoved it across the floor, aiming it for Peter. Although both agents grabbed for the gun, Pete caught it, shooting the gun out of one of the thug's hands. Neal was thrilled. Just like the movies!

Seeing one of the men fleeing, Neal sent additional pipes in all directions, hurtling one of them like a javelin. He picked up a fallen cell phone and contacted Diana, telling her the address and that one of the criminals was trying to escape.

Eager on the chase, Neal followed the fleeing man until some invisible leash jerked him tight. He still managed to distract the man by hurtling a garbage bin in his path. The man dodged that, but tripped over a concrete block that someone had left lying on the loading dock. He tumbled over the side and screamed loudly, his gun flying out of his reach.

A good day's job, but now Neal felt himself fading rapidly. Apparently there were limits to what he could do in this form after all. He would have liked to have stayed to make sure Peter and Jones were safe, but his body drew him back.

OooOooO

Waking, Neal found himself in the bedroom that was his other cell. A man with a stethoscope had just turned away from him.

"Mr. Anthony, this man's vital signs were dangerously low. Perhaps he has a heart condition or something like that. Whatever you're doing...well, you should stop unless you mean to lose him."

"He's fine now," Gregorovitch said, scowling at Neal. "I pay you to keep guys alive, not to give me advice. You get that."

The doctor nodded and said, "I get that, Mr. Anthony."

"Keep it in mind and you keep getting those nice wads of cash too."

The doctor's qualms vanished from his face. He nodded, gathered equipment and left.

"Doctor says you need to rest, that your body seemed to have endured a massive amount of stress. He said your blood chemistry was out of whack, all your electrolytes and that stuff out of balance like you had been running a marathon."

Neal took that in. He had thought of his out of body experiences as exhilarating and entertaining, never guessing there could be a physical toll. He fluttered his eyelashes at Gregorovitch and said, "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Yeah, right, I still know you're up to something. Pull your shit together fast. I just heard about a visiting exhibit with a rare icon I got to have. It's in New York so you better be real good. You get out of line and you're dead."

Neal nodded. He pretended to sleep, but pretending rapidly turned into real sleep. He was so tired.

OooOooO

Moz watched the young gangster he hired slip his hand into the post office box. Much as it went against Moz's instincts, he had chosen this twenty four hour lobby next to the police station for his drop. Not that he would go into the place himself. He had hired a kid in gang colors for the role. Neal wouldn't have liked it as he had protective instincts even when the kid had a longer record than Neal had. The kid took out an envelope, walked out with it.

Moz followed the skinny black dude for a few blocks. The kid sat on a park bench for a while, humming to his I-pod and then moved on with the envelope. The contents were hidden in a discarded newspaper. Moz waited. There were no followers and he finally felt comfortable enough to sit on the bench, glance at the paper and saunter away with it.

What the feds didn't know couldn't hurt Moz. He had worked for the assholes once when he was young and stupid. The first time he was around an execution, Moz slipped away from that life, that name, and any trace of the young idiot after a fast buck. His first real forgery was a death certificate for his old self.

Despite that regretful part of his past, Moz kept his sources in the Russia mafia, not that it was really one organization. In reality, there were several crime syndicates that were unfortunate imports from the former Soviet Union and its unwilling satellites. Moz kept his eyes and ears on the one which used to employ him and it happened to be the one that Gregorovitch ran. Or not.

Scowling, Moz considered whether Gregorovitch knew that he was alive, knew that Neal was his friend, and took Neal because of that.

After a few moments of thought, Moz had to reject the idea. No, Gregorovitch would have come after Moz directly. He was capable of being subtle, but not in defense of his criminal empire. Moz hunched his shoulders. He was terrified of getting too close to his old boss, but he was even more afraid of losing Neal.

Honestly, Moz should have turned the other way and ran away rapidly the moment he drifted near the radiant sun that was Neal Caffrey. It was too late now though. He was caught in Neal's gravity, a hopeless satellite to his charm and brilliance.

The motel at which Moz was staying was almost as anonymous as his storage units. It was one of many built during the sixties, two stories surrounding a court yard with parking. There were rickety steps with battered, barely holding rails which once had been painted black, but now were mostly rust. Moz's room was on the corner and near overgrown shrubbery that could cover his escape. The one large window actually opened...now. Moz had pried it free of paint and planed it so he could escape through it silently if he had to. On the other side of the motel, there was a construction site with plenty of hiding places. If Moz was the kind to ever grow complacent, he might have felt safe here.

Good thing Moz knew that safety was an illusion.

However, it was an okay place to sleep a few nights and to examine the data he bought with a web of favors and some of Neal's hidden money...hidden from Peter but not from Moz.

The thin protective inner package contained a disc. Moz ran it on a cheap mini lap top which he would drop at an electronics recycling center after he accessed the information.

Moz peered at the laptop as he sat at the rickety table in his motel room. Huh, Gregorovitch had lived here with his wife in an expensive mansion. The wife was dead now. No suspicious circumstances according to the police report he had purchased from a hacker. Ha. Moz believed in that like he believed there was no moon landing. Of course, the USA had landed on the moon unlike some of Moz's paranoid friends believed. What was not true was that the astronauts found no sign of life. Moz believed firmly that the US government was thoroughly infiltrated with aliens, but even they could not fix the economy, damn it.

Gregorovitch was collecting. The old man had cancer and he knew his time was limited. Perhaps the medication had destroyed his mind because Gregorovitch was obsessed with collecting icons of Saint Christopher.

That must be what he was doing with Neal. Moz shook with anxiety. What to do now?

Go after Neal on his own or go to the suit and ask for help?

It was against Moz's immoral fiber to involve the FBI, but it might be impossible for Moz to get near Neal. Gregorovitch knew Moz.

OooOooO

Peter woke with a start, looked around and saw nothing. He had turned the videotape into the local police, but asked them to make a transfer to a DVD which they had done. He had already viewed it several times, but he started the disc again.

A voice quavered from the balcony. "The one pushing the wheelchair is Dima Arshan, one of a set of twins, both of them in the employ of Gregorovitch."

Peter nearly shot Moz before realizing it was him.

"Are you trying to get me to shoot you?"

"Not in particular," Moz said. "You're not exactly the trigger happy sort of suit."

"That could change rapidly," Peter growled.

Moz was clad in a short sleeved shirt, his concession to the warm weather. Dolefully, he glanced out at the fading glory of a Florida sunset and said, "It looks like hurricane weather."

Peter was sure it was no use explaining that there were no storms predicted. Moz would surely find a way to explain how that was a plot meant to delude them.

"You know Dima from where?"

"Suffice to say I know him," Moz evaded.

Neal could have done it better, more playfully and without the shifting eyes. Peter tried to focus but his head was pounding.

Before Peter could demand that Moz be direct, Moz surprised him by saying, "I have Gregorovitch's address."

Peter reached toward Moz but restrained himself from touching. "Give me it. I'll need some sort of proof so we can get a warrant to search."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Peter held back a threat. Threats with Moz would only make him vanish and Moz was very good at disappearing.

"I mean I don't care if you make another collar. I want Neal back and that's all. You and Gregorovitch can play some other day. You go in like a FBI agent and Neal is dead."

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't get a word out. Moz was right.

"What's your idea?"

Moz plopped down in one of the sparsely padded chairs that stood near the small table on which Peter had put his laptop. Moz sagged. "I wish I had one."

"What is Gregorovitch into besides icons?"

"Twins," Moz said. "He has a real thing for twins. His wife was one, but something happened to his sister right after they married. His mistresses were all identical twins and his servants, guards, whatever, they are too."

"I don't think I can provide a pair of twins to infilterate."

"Gregorovitch is superstitious beyond the icons. He believes in ghosts."

"So we get you inside as a spiritualist?"

"Problem, suit," Moz replied, rubbing his forehead as if giving birth to a full grown headache. "It might be that Gregorovitch knows me."

"Might be?"

Moz winced and shifted away from Peter's gaze. "What about Diana? I could teach her enough to run a con."

Peter smiled and nodded. It was a perfect idea. Jones would have loved the role, but Peter didn't want to risk it. Gregorovitch might have researched Neal's associates. Diana hadn't been back for long. She was the safest bet.

OooOooO

"Word is that Gregorovitch might have killed his sister in law and maybe the wife being left too long in the isolation tank..."

"What?" Peter interjected.

"Isolation tank. It was a treatment for her fibromyalgia."

"Hmm."

Moz tilted his head to gaze at Peter with speculation. "Spit it out, suit."

"Nothing, a stray thought."

It was another hotel room, nondescript, this time the color scheme was gray and blue, including the watercolor on the wall. Peter focused on the battered gilt frame, thinking of how Neal would have winced to see the badly printed Renoir. Somehow the lake scene was even more out of focus than the artist had intended. There was a blur in the lower left corner that did not belong.

The room itself also seemed a blur. The bed spread had frayed threads. The Venetian blinds had bent slats. There was a dark spot on the ceiling that seemed to bulge.

However, the room had two admirable qualities. It was cheap and did not come with a bed-defensive dog.

Peter gazed at Diana who was attired in a very nice black business suit, a subtle moon goddess pendant at her velvety throat above the lacy camisole. He shook his head and said, "Shouldn't she wear a turban or something?"

Together the withering looks from Moz and Diana made Peter miss Neal all the more. Neal would have laughed at his comment, his head thrown back, neck arched, blue eyes shining like the sky after a cloud burst rinsed the grey and left only the sun.

Swallowing his sorrow, Peter picked up his phone. "We're going to want a wire."

"Got one," Moz said. "Got more than one. Don't worry about it."

Diana grinned fiercely. That woman loved her work, the more dangerous the better.

"I'm ready for my close up, Mister DeMille."

OooOooO


	4. Chapter 4

OooOooO

Two beautiful blue eyed women gazed down at Neal, speaking to him. They were both pale with long blond hair and features like those Neal had admired on ancient coins. They had the kind of strong bone structure which later in life would appear harsh, but at this stage of their lives, they were classically lovely. They held hands fiercely as if they never wanted to be parted.

They were twins. Neal was becoming so used to everyone having a match in this strange household that he wondered at times where his was. (and then again, perhaps his twin was Peter, as opposite as they were, they had the rapport that twins were vaunted to have.)

The women spoke to him, matching pairs of blue eyes intent. He recognized the language as a Russian dialect, but only knew enough to recognize that it was Russian. He could tell they were asking for help and warning him, but was helpless to decipher what specifically they wanted. He thought they might be prisoners here and needing rescue although how they came to be in his room, he did not know.

"I don't really speak Russian," Neal said.

Both women shook heads, the identical movement making Neal feel dizzy. He felt tired and fretful, half wishing that he was still in the isolation tank. How strange that he felt more freedom confined in that coffin like place than he did here in this luxurious room.

Dizzy, Neal closed his eyes. It seemed to him only for a second, but when he opened his eyes, the twin beauties were gone. Staggering up, Neal searched for a secret passage, sure that the guard, surly Dima, had not let his interesting visitors in.

No mysterious doorway appeared even when Neal prodded every protuberance and recess on the elaborately carved fireplace surround. He was examining the wall on which hung an icon of the Virgin Mary when Gregorovitch entered.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking at this icon," Neal responded.

"Come. You should eat, skinny as you are. Come on."

Neal had never been in the dining room and now he was startled to see a portrait of the two women hanging there. He went to it, astounded. It was really a good painting although he did not recognize the signature. He peered at the scrawl. It said, 'Alexei Gregorovitch'.

"This is beautiful," Neal admired. "They are lovely."

"My wife and her sister, Eleni and Isadora," Gregorvitch said. "My son painted it."

"He is a fine artist."

"Was."

"I'm sorry," Neal said.

"He was a useless creature, much as yourself. Don't be."

Despite his off hand comment, Gregorovitch's scowl indicated that Neal should drop the subject. Gregorovitch indicated the place setting next to his at the head of the table and said, "Sit."

Neal sat. The dinner ware was unconventional, full of cheerful chickens in bright colors surrounded by unlikely flowers. He picked up his cup, smiling at the design.

"None of that fine china for me," Gregorovitch remarked.

No, Gregorovitch chose to eat from a complete collection of antique Khokhloma ceramics, worth more than the finest china.

"I like it," Neal said, turning the cup to admire a fish which appeared to be swimming through a sea of flowers.

The cuisine was also Russian, the inevitable fish soup, pickled vegetables, herring, followed by lamb Shashlyk and Pelmeni. It was much too much for Neal to eat despite the scowls that Gregorovitch threw at him.

"He was like that too. Never eating a man's meal. Nothing of me in that boy, no matter what the tests said."

Feeling sorry for the boy he had never known, Neal said, "But you do find an artist useful at times."

"Yes. In your favor, you have balls. Maybe. You submitted meekly enough to the FBI agent's collar."

Neal shrugged dismissively. "Burke and I make a good team."

"You better hope that you make a good team with me or maybe if get you a better coffin than the tank."

OooOooO

Most of the household was not much into talking, but the maid, Irina, was. Her twin sister was the cook and was pregnant with Gregorovitch's child according to Irina.

Irina had finished making Neal's bed and now sat idly on a chair, watching Neal work on the newest forgery.

"I don't get what the old man wants with all that old religious stuff. Must have a guilty conscience."

Looking around, Irina tossed her glossy black curls and said, "He killed them, you know."

"Who?"

"His wife, her sister, his son."

Neal wanted to ask her more, but Lev who was on door duty poked his head inside and snarled, "Get your lazy butt going, Irina."

Sashaying her pretty bottom with deliberate spite, Irina said, "You just wish you had a chance at this, Lev."

Lev snarled. He was a spoiled copy of Dima as he had a knife scar down his left cheek. Like his brother. Lev had a broad plain face with blunt features, a bulbous nose, and grey, nearly colorless eyes. He was muscular and built for power not speed. As Irina passed by, Lev grabbed her, pushing her against the wall, hands invading everywhere.

It was nonsensical to think he could take Lev, but Neal tried anyway. At least, he distracted Lev into letting Irina go. She went screaming down the corridor while Lev turned his attentions to punishing Neal for his impudence. Neal screamed as Lev crushed his hand in a brutal grip. He heard at least one finger snap. He fainted.

Waking, Neal felt the numb feeling of a local anesthetic. His right hand had two fingers in a splint. Gregorovitch sat in the massive brocade chair in Neal's room. Lev, looking pale, stood next to his brother.

"You are awake, Neal?"

"Yes."

"Good, Irina told me what happened. Lev's attempt to lie about an escape attempt compounded his crimes."

Turning his attention to Dima, Gregorovitch snapped, "Do it."

It didn't take much deduction to go from Lev's hand bound on a carving board and the knife in his brother's hand.

Nor did it take brilliance to see the unmitigated hate in both twin's eyes.

Neal said, "Wait."

"What?" Gregorovitch said.

"He broke my fingers so that should be his punishment."

"He also touched what was mine, you and Irina."

"It's more artistic just to break his fingers."

Gregorovitch's mouth twitched and he said, "All right, Dima, use that mallet."

The solid thud was followed by Lev's screams. Dima didn't change expression as he waited to be told what to do next.

"Have the doctor put the hand in a cast," Gregorovitch instructed. "Tell your brother when he awakes that only your usefulness saved him."

After Dima dragged off Lev, Gregorovitch eyed his remaining set of twin body guards. He said, "Leo and Pavel, keep an eye on those two."

The younger guards looked pleased. They were barely out of their teens, but were eager to earn to blaze a trail of blood. Dima was such as favorite that they had less chance to serve. This pair had long, lean faces and were shorter than the brutes who had just left. Leo and Pavel appeared to have some Mongol ancestry. They were somewhat attractive with those high cheeks and the intense black of their eyes. Neal might have liked paint them except the cold dead look in those eyes offended him.

In light of what happened to Lev, Leo and Pavel were politely distant to Neal.

OooOooO

Gregorovitch's doctor was good. Neal could not complain about the pain medication or the skill the man had in setting his hands. The man chose to remain nameless. He was tall, about Peter's age, but had taken care of his skin. He had beautifully manicured nails and his suit was something Neal would wear gladly. Being a concierge doctor to a mobster was not a fashion choice Neal would ever have made however.

When Neal asked the good doctor about his situation, the man laughed and said, "I have light duties. I can travel freely and I still make more in a year than my tax attorneys can keep the government from raiding. I support free clinics here and one in Africa. My hands are clean. I don't torture or kill for him."

"No, you patch up those he injures."

"We all live with who we are."

That was all the doctor had to say. He was so self-involved that Neal doubted he could penetrate all the levels of emotional protection he layered over his conscience.

Irina came into the room to clean up after the doctor. Neal asked, "Are you all right?"

The question gained him an armful of voluptuous fantasy...if you liked Victorian porn with a beauty in a classic maid's uniform, lace apron and all.

Neal disengaged, dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief and said, "Hey, did he punish you?"

"No, although he hasn't wanted me in his bed since Lev touched me. All right with me."

Irina arched her back, emphasizing her already pushed up and inflated breasts. "Since you can't paint, perhaps there is something else you want to do?"

Smiling, Neal shook his head. He wiggled the fingers in his left hand and replied, "I still have one good hand and I want to keep it that way."

Disappointed, Irina fluttered thick eyelashes and pouted her lips. She had a very pretty mouth with full lips, heart shaped. All of her was lush. Neal might have painted her as a Ruben's beauty. She was not as well padded, but she was full figured. It reminded Neal of home, of El.

Giving Irina his best smile, Neal said, "You could help me. Get a note to my friend."

Irina shook her head and said, "He would know. Thank you for helping me, but better to have Lev's hands all over me then to make Gregorovitch angry. He is not kind to women, Neal."

"Sorry I asked."

Irina left and Neal pulled the heavy chair to the window, opened the book he was reading, a biography of Michelangelo.

Neal was seriously considering some act of defiance to be thrown back in the isolation tank. He wanted to see Peter very much.

OooOooO


	5. Chapter 5

OooOooO

The next morning, Neal was escorted down to breakfast. After his fingers were broken, he couldn't force anything down and now he was very hungry, having missed two meals.

Gregorovitch looked terrible. He looked haunted and Neal realized this was the literal truth. Neal sat when invited. He was not sure why Gregorovitch had taken to having Neal sit with him at meals. Perhaps the man was lonely. He was so careful to keep his staff at a distance. Even Irina and her sister, Kesinia, were bed toys, but he had no real warmth for them.

Kesinia brought in the food. She was carrying a heavy tray and looked worn, given the weight of the child in her womb. Neal stood quickly and took the tray from her, carrying it to the table. Kesinia was the more timid of the sisters and she looked fearfully at Gregorovitch when Neal relieved her of her burden.

The mobster snorted and drummed thick, gold ringed fingers on the table. "Kesinia, you tell your sister she should serve from now on. I don't want my son injured."

Gregorovitch said, "You just look at her. Now she is good peasant stock, wide hips, no trouble bearing. If this baby is a healthy one, I might marry her. Da?"

Neal said, "I'm sure you will have a fine healthy boy. You know it's a boy?"

"Of course, I made sure it was a boy and that it is mine. At my age, I don't have too many chances."

Neal hurt for Kesinia. He wondered why she was here, why she permitted Gregorovitch to use her like this, with less consideration than the Russian would give one of his brood mares in the stables outside.

"Your associate, Moz?"

"Who?" Neal asked.

The slap shocked Neal. He rocked with the force.

"No games. I want you to contact Moz to have him come here. The forgery must be finished now. I can not wait."

Rubbing his face, Neal said steadily, "I don't betray my friends, Gregorovitch. No matter what you do to me."

Those huge hands clutched the table, barely restrained. The Russian shook his heavy head. "Not betrayal. I will make you both rich. This one last icon and then I will let you go."

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"I swear it on Saint Christopher."

Neal longed to see Moz with all of his heart. Moz was his friend, his critic, his audience, and the one who loved him anyway that he was. However, he shook his head. He said, "What ever you do to me...I don't give up the people I care about."

"What about that dark haired beauty?"

"Kate's dead."

"Elizabeth Burke is alive."

Gregorovitch snapped his fingers and Pavel stepped forward, producing an envelope. Gregorovitch opened the envelope and produced a packet of pictures of El.

The ache in Neal's heart felt physical. One of the pictures caught El in one of her brilliant smiles. He spread the pictures and shrugged. "She's a mark. Her husband is a mark. If you think I give a damn for either one of the Burkes, you have no idea who I am. I make my living playing roles. I played one to get out of prison. El Burke is an easy target, soft bodied, soft of heart. She's Peter Burke's weakness. I always find the vulnerabilities of my marks and play them."

"If you don't care about her, care about yourself. It seems that you need some time to think."

Back down the elevator. Back to the tank. Almost instantly, back to Peter.

OooOooO

"Jones, I told you, Gregorovitch would know you and...and...ah.."

No, the mobster would not know Jones. Peter's staid agent was gone, replaced by this exotic creature with waist-length, glossy braids, a very realistic beard and mustache, green eyes, and a sleeveless vest as an upper garment, revealing spectacular muscle development. His ears were studded with gold and jade earrings. Blushing, Peter noted that Jones appeared to have matching nipple rings. His pants were tight enough to show what Jones had and he had a lot.

Diana grinned. She swatted Jones' ass in a proprietary way and said, "He makes nice eye candy...which I can say in an objective way. Clinton said that a high class fortune teller such as myself should have a body guard and I agreed."

"You both are spending way too much time with Neal," Peter observed.

"And hoping to spend even more," Jones said.

"All right. All right."

Peter felt a light touch, familiar, as if Neal had patted his shoulder. He couldn't help turning and caught the scent that Neal liked to wear, a hint of amber, the sharp, clean smell of vetiver...Peter knew what that was only because Neal expounded on what went into his personal fragrance in the course of lecturing Peter on why Aqua Velva was not a suitable aftershave.

"Something wrong, boss?" Diana said.

"Huh? No, no. Be careful. Gregorovitch might be a crazy son of a bitch, but he's also a stone cold killer."

"We know," Jones said. He grinned. "We'll be on our best game."

As the two left, Moz said from a dark corner, "We're doomed."

OooOooO

"The kid might be still alive."

"Which kid?" Peter asked. He watched Moz skulk around the room. Moz reminded Peter of his favorite afternoon rerun when he was a kid, The Addams Family. Moz would have been the black sheep of that bizarre family.

"Gregorovitch's son," Moz said. Moz glanced away. He shrugged and said, "So maybe I have a soft spot for kids. The old man had a heavy hand and this wasn't a tough guy. He was artistic, gentle, and frightened to death of his father. I may have helped him fake his death and get away."

"You may have," Peter repeated. He saw where Neal had acquired some of his mannerisms. A thought struck him. "This is not Neal, right? Gregorovich's artistic son?"

"No, it's not him," Moz replied. "I don't like having a pattern, but...it happens."

Peter filed that away. Neal's early life was a blank. Peter suspected that Neal Caffrey was not his friend's birth name, but Neal didn't offer any details of his childhood other than Brittany Nicole who didn't like the gap in his teeth.

A tiny thread lifted from Peter's shoulder and wafted away to the nearest garbage.

It could have been a fluke, but Peter felt the touch, light and friendly. He could smell Neal's scent.

Moz's eyes went wild and he said, "Suit, you using Neal's fragrance?"

"No, of course not," Peter said. "It's too sweet for me."

"Sweet as Neal," Moz said. "Why am I smelling Neal in the room?"

"Maybe it's on my suit," Peter said, trying to remember if he had this suit dry cleaned. Neal did like to lean close to him. Maybe the scent rubbed off?

Moz walked over, sniffed, and shook his head. He addressed the empty air and said, "Neal Caffrey, you better not be dead. I'm not going to play Topper to you."

OooOooO

Neal was thrilled to find Moz in the room with Peter. How could he have ever thought about flying away without him? That was insane.

As much as Neal missed Kate, he realized that it would have been a bitter choice to leave everyone else behind for her. He still couldn't say for sure what he would have done if the plane had not blown. He had been sure it was the right choice to leave. He had felt horrible for what happened to El and Peter, felt that he had invaded their lives and ruined their happiness. Leaving with Kate seemed the best solution, but now he wondered if he could have found real happiness. He loved Kate, but Peter and El, June and Moz, even Jones had become the family he had never had.

Moz had not asked to come with Neal. Neal assumed Moz would hook up with him later, but Neal realized it would have been years before it would have been safe to meet.

Turning his attentions to Moz, Neal grinned, kissed the short guy on his bald spot. Moz slapped at his head as if he was a mosquito. Peeved, Neal leaned close to kiss Moz's cheek then to thoroughly bemuse his friend; Neal inserted the tip of his tongue into Moz's ear. Moz really needed to wash there more often, but the squeal and jump was worth the taste.

Moz jumped around clawing at his ear, yelling there was something in his ear.

Peter looked in Moz's ear and reassured him that there was nothing there.

Neal cracked up as he watched Peter's face. Moz insisted on telling the FBI agent the plot of the Wrath of Kahn and the parasites that controlled you, man. They were the ultimate brain washing tool and Moz was sure they were being developed in a secret lab underneath Disneyland.

Neal leaned against Peter, both ethereal arms around his friend's neck and listened to Moz's ranting as if it was his favorite bedtime story.

OooOooO

Jones enjoyed his role. He usually preferred to merge into the background, but his exotic gear was another way to observe without anyone paying attention to him. They only looked at his get up, not at who he was. Neal had once said there were two ways to play a con, blend in or be so shiny that all people could remember was the glow. It was obvious which one Neal chose. Jones resolved to experiment more. It was fun.

Folding his arms, Jones glared out from the mask of his face. He was a method actor so he imagined that he was Peter, discovering an error in a case report. The expression must have been intimidating as the Russian mobster's guard, already pale, blanched further.

Jones let the corner of his lips twitch, a classic Peter smirk. He was insanely happy with the result. Acting was fun. Neal was right.

Place was weird. Icons of Saint Christopher everywhere, even in the john, which was so thick with gilt that it could have stood in for a sultan's bathroom. Jones had to close his eyes to piss. The Saint Christopher looked disapproving with cold sapphire eyes glaring from his bearded face. If this dude was Santa Claus, children would shriek in terror if he emerged from the chimney. Jones zipped up with a shudder and washed his hands.

Eyes flashing, elegant, strong hands stretched out as if dowsing for spirits, Diana was over the top, but believable. She shuddered and said, "Two angry spirits...sisters."

Gregorovitch's ruddy face grew redder. He said, "I know that. What will it take to make them leave, the witches?"

"They..." Diana gasped theatrically. "They are hiding from me. I have to find the places in your house where their spirits are tethered. We must perform a ceremony in each place to banish them."

Gregorovitch shook his head and said, "I will pay you well to get rid of the ghosts, but I don't need you wandering through my home."

"Money is nothing," Diana said. She snapped her fingers and sailed through the door with Jones in her shadow.

Man, there was no way Jones was ever playing poker with Diana.

"Wait. Stop."

Jones was holding the door open for Diana, junior boss as he thought of her. As Diana passed through the doorway, Gregorovitch made a strangled sound and said, "Whatever is necessary."

Diana gravely nodded. She said, "Bring the supplies, Orlando."

The ritual involved long chants, powders strewn over surfaces, swaying dances, and draping surfaces with special cloths to cleanse them. Incidentally, Jones was able to collect fingerprints. If Neal had any freedom in this house, they would soon know for sure if he was here.

One of the bedrooms was more of an art studio. "It was my son's," Gregorovitch claimed. "He was a useless creature, full of ridiculous notions."

Jones recognized Neal's brush strokes in the painting. Besides he had been learning more from Neal than how to run a con. The paint was relatively fresh. Neal had been held here. Over on the windowsill, Jones spotted several paper cranes. Again, Neal. Jones saw Diana's cool gaze flicker over the items. She shuddered and said, "They were here. They have great anger. They are some place low, dark. Is there a basement, Mr. Gregorovitch?"

"There is nothing in the basement, nothing."

This time Diana's attempt at persuasion failed. Gregorovitch shook his head again and again, red face fading to a corpse grey. He had them ushered out.

Safely behind the wheel, Jones said, "Neal is in the basement."

"Hopefully, we have fingerprints and Peter can find a friendly judge."

OooOooO


	6. Chapter 6

OooOooO

His spirit was weak. Neal hung on Peter, feeling the warmth of him, the comfort. His friends sat together, wordless, one on each side of the battered table by the dingy hotel window. It bothered Neal a little that he was able to sit on air, sink through the thin padding of the chair to wrap his arms around Peter and rest his weary head on Peter's shoulder. Peter had a cup of coffee that was rank and strong; its odor making Neal wrinkle his incorporeal nostrils with disdain. There was an oil slick lazily eddying on the surface. When Peter lifted the cup to drink from it, Neal used the last of his energy to spill the horrible liquid.

Peter grunted in surprise, leaping up to go find paper towels to sop up the coffee. Neal floated after him, feeling cold and lost.

There was a tug and suddenly Neal was standing on a familiar street corner in Paris. He found himself walking on the Champ Elysies, a familiar place. He was near Fouquet's, where Moz, Kate, and he had spent many a care free morning, drinking good coffee, dining off pastries, and luxuriating in the rarified air of the famous street. Those had been the good days before Peter obtained permission to chase him to France. He had made several great scores and they were living in a hotel suite at the Fouquet Barriere.

Ah, there was Kate in one of his favorite of her summer dresses, the sleeveless linen with the faint sprigs of flowers. An antique Citrine pendant rested over the hollow of her neck. He had found it in a jumble shop, tarnished and unloved, his trained eye recognizing the province instantly. He had cleaned it himself, resurrecting the beauty from the blackened mess. Kate smiled, warm and loving, the way it had been before Peter.

Peter...

Ruined his life. Took him from Kate.

Peter took everything from Neal, but gave him back a center for his life. Neal loved him and hated him just a little. Mostly it was painful to need Peter more than Peter needed him. Peter had El and Neal no longer had anyone to love the way he had loved Kate.

But there was Kate, her hand waving, her eyes glowing softly. She was made up the way he preferred, just the lightest of touches, suiting her youth and her flawless skin. He had not liked the heavy makeup she had worn when he had been in prison. Neal's step quickened as he went toward her, his heart felt lighter. It was the life that he had dreamed about when he decided to leave Peter, leave it all behind.

Sitting, half hidden by a wall of flowers, Neal reached across the table to capture Kate's hand. It was as delicate as a blossom, warm, fragrant with the perfume Neal had helped her concoct at the custom shop a few blocks from here. She was as perfect as he had made her.

The waiter was there instantly, fawning rather than supercilious, an honor won by generous tips and the best couture either of them could find. Their polish and prettiness was enough to forgive Moz even at his most Bohemian, intricately knotted wrist bandanas tangling on his wrists, hand made silver rings in arcane symbols studding his fingers.

A glass of house wine at ten American a glass. Neal raised it to his lips, thirsty and hungry suddenly. The glass was touching his lip when someone dashed it away. Peter again. Damn Peter!

Snapping his fingers, Neal ordered a new glass and glared at Peter who stood there looking concerned, that V winged frown line deeper than Neal had ever seen it.

Peter's fingers closed around the new glass.

Neal argued, "I want to drink. I'm thirsty. Let me have my wine."

"Not here, you can not drink here."

"Why?"

"Persephone. Not so much as a pomegranate seed."

It was Kate who loved the classics.

Neal had taught her that in many a warm evening, the two of them naked in bed, candles glowing, a leather bound book in Neal's hands as Kate lay in his arms, listening to him read.

"Don't be silly," Neal said.

But Peter would not let him drink or eat.

OooOooO

Waking with a start, Peter gazed about wildly. He had dreamed of the Champ Elysies, of the Cafe Fouquet with its dated charm, redolent of days when Jackie Onassis was the queen of fashion and style. He had once spotted Neal, Kate, and Moz dining there and chased Neal all the way to Napoleon's tomb. The owner had complained to the French government, not so much about the unseemly chase as about Peter's lack of style. The snob...it had been one of his best suits.

All Peter remembered of the dream was that he could not let Neal eat or drink at the café.

Moz stared at him owlishly from a few feet away. In the dim light, Moz's pale face seemed to have an eerie glow. Peter untangled himself from the blue fuzzy blanket with which he was covered and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing at his eyes.

"You kept saying Neal's name."

"Yeah, I was dreaming about France. The Café Fouquet."

"Those were good times for us," Moz said with a sigh. "Kate and I...we weren't good at sharing, but we did it for Neal. We were happy."

"Until I arrived in pursuit of the elusive Mr. Caffrey."

"He was like a big kid. He is like a big kid. He thought it was a great game until you caught him. I kept telling him; the man is dangerous, but he had to tease you. Those calls. Lingering to talk with you. It was like he was flirting with you."

"His harmless dance."

"He thinks it's harmless," Moz replied, his mouth twisting into a faint grimace. "He doesn't get it that people want what they want and it isn't always a dance."

"True," Peter said.

The knock at the door startled them both. Moz, jumpy at best, stood up and knocked the chair over.

It was Jones and Diana, back in suits and fresh from court where they had been introduced by the local FBI agent. Diana looked disappointed and said, "The judge didn't buy into Neal's fingerprints. She got on her laptop, looked up Neal's history and decided he must have been at the mansion willingly. She is too full of herself, thinks she's smarter at our job than we are."

"Damn!" Peter exclaimed. "We have to get back in there."

Diana's phone rang. She held her hand up, cautioning everyone to silence. "I see, Mr. Gregorovitch. I suppose I could come back. Let me check my schedule and call you back."

Ending the call, Diana said, "I'm not sure if we'll gain anything by going back in. He probably won't change his mind about the basement. We need a real inside man, but with Gregorovitch's obsession with twins, that doesn't seem possible."

Moz mumbled something.

Peter said, "What? Moz, spit it out."

"I maybe know someone who could get in. If Diana would tell Gregorvitch that the spirits call for him to reunite with his son."

"His dead son?" Diana said.

"Maybe not so dead."

OooOooO


	7. Chapter 7

OooOooO

Jones had plenty of practice hiding his sense of humor behind a stony bureau face. Hughes didn't believe a sense of humor was an attribute in an FBI agent. He wore his most stolid expression here, letting his muscles speak instead as he trailed Diana through the house. She stopped in the room with the art equipment and shuddered. She said, "The spirits speak here."

Gregorovitch gulped. His face was so red that Jones wondered if he was having a stroke. "What do they say?"

Diana screamed dramatically and spoke in Russian. The words thick, clustered with vowels. Gregorovitch responded, but Diana threw up her hands and said, "I don't speak Russian."

"You said my son was alive. He drowned."

"I saw him at the church," Diana said, "He was painting the church. St. Andrews. It was today. I'm sure he is there... The spirits want him here. Want him to be happy."

"Then I will make him happy, if I have to break every bone in his body," Gregorovitch said. He cracked his knuckles, the sound crass and threatening. "My son will come home."

His face still ruddy, Gregorovitch said, "You will stay here until I find him."

Nodding to the twin bodyguards, one of them with his hand in cast, Gregorovitch said, "Keep them entertained."

Jones glanced at Diana who shook her head. She said, "I would like some tea."

"Get her what she wants," Gregorovitch said to the black haired maid, her classic Russian features marred by a bruise.

"Yes, sir," the woman replied.

"Just some tea," Diana replied, frowning as she observed the injury.

"Yes, Ma'am," the maid whispered.

Gregorovitch left, followed by a second team of blond and blue eyed punks. It gave Jones the creeps to see everyone in the mansion in duplicate. The man was obsessive, probably the result of the loss of his identical twin at age thirteen. The boy had drowned when the two had been swimming one night.

The maid returned with a tray, silver tea service, an assortment of finger food, including petit fours. Jones was hungry. They had been too worked up to have breakfast. His stomach growled. Diana raised her brow at him and he shrugged apologetically.

"Have some tea, Byron," Diana said.

Jones filled a plate and resumed his stance against the wall. The maid walked past the guard with the cast on his hand. The guard said in a low tone, "We didn't feed him again, your white knight."

"Gregorovitch will be angry if he dies."

"The thief is useless and stubborn," the guard replied.

"You have already made the boss angry," the maid said. "I'm going to go and take care of him."

The guard followed the woman out of the room and shortly after, Jones heard her shriek. He stepped out, already hearing Diana's comments. She wouldn't approve of him risking their cover because of chivalry.

"What do you want?" the guard asked, his heavy brow furrowing. He let go of the maid.

"Madame Callista requires quiet. She wishes to commune with the spirits."

The Russian guard made as if to spit, but stopped himself. "Superstitious. The old man..." Glancing at the maid, the guard slouched away without saying anything.

Jones eyed the maid and took a picture of Neal out of his pocket. "Know him?"

The spark of recognition was clear in her eyes, but she shook her head of glossy black curls and fled.

Damn.

Jones took a few steps down the hall, but the uninjured twin guard appeared. Jones said, "Need a restroom."

The man's cold grey eyes focused on Jones as if he was a target, but he led Jones silently to a bathroom off the kitchen. "For the help," he said.

When Jones emerged, the guard had left. The maid hovered over her pregnant sister, both of them looking distressed. When Jones took a few steps toward them, the maid warded him off. She said, "I can not talk to you. There will be trouble."

The terror in the woman's voice was effective as a deterrent. Jones returned to Diana in the dining room. She said, "The twin guards were talking about a man being punished in the basement."

"What do you think? Want to hit them head on?"

"Tempting," Diana said, "but I think we better stick with the plan."

OooOooO

Anatoly distinctly resembled Neal. He had black hair, brilliant blue eyes, and the same elegant bone structure. His body was thicker and his face broader, his father's genetics weakly expressed. He sat shaking his head in the motel room, his face striped by the sunlight shining relentlessly through the blind. The air conditioner stuttered again as it had been doing on and off all day.

Anatoly hunched in on himself, hands dangling between his knees. "I have been free of my father for eighteen years."

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion." "Albert Camus," Anatoly said with a grimace. "I will never forgive you for making me read the collected works." "It's Neal, Anatoly." "Perfect Neal...my replacement," Anatoly replied. "You wanted to go to college," Moz stated. "I know," Anatoly said. "You'll have the protection of the FBI," Peter said. He had been peering through the blinds as if he could somehow spot Neal out there. "Your father has a lot to answer for." "My mother, my aunt...others whose names I know not," Anatoly said. He sat up. "I wanted revenge when I met Moz and Moz said he would help me, but over time, all I wanted was to live, to paint, to be anything other than that bastard who spawned me. I wanted to have some formal training." "Those who can do, those who can't, teach," Moz said. "Neal knows that." "You paid for me to go, Moz-Man," Anatoly said. Standing up, Anatoly paced across the room and stood next to Peter. "I was the practice run. Neal Caffrey was perfection." "Come on, Tony. You chose, not me." "I am grateful and I suppose it's time I faced him. I kept hoping that he would end up murdered by those bastards he keeps for protection or that he would finally force the wrong woman into his bed. No, he still lives. All right, where do I meet Father Monster?" "St. Andrews in an hour," Peter said. "You were confident I would do it." "Moz seems to have good taste in students," Peter said. "Let's get you wired up." OooOooO Peter wished there was a way to bypass this part of the plan. Anatoly made him feel protective. Perhaps Moz and he had the same taste in protegees. For the last thirty minutes, Anatoly had been sketching in the outline of Saint Andrews. Peter saw he was as talented as Neal and much more self confident about his art. Neal seldom put any value in his original work whereas Anatoly had commented that his career could really take off if he didn't have to keep a low profile for fear of his father. When Gregorovitch arrived, Anatoly put up a front, but ultimately followed his father to the limousine. Moz muttered, "This better not go wrong. I wouldn't choose between them, not risk Anatoly for Neal." "Then why?" "To free Anatoly," Moz said. "He wants to make his chops in the art world and yet because of his father, he never dares to get further than obscure local art contests." "Does he have the talent?" "In spades," Moz said. "What about Neal?" "He's as good as Tony," Moz said, "but he doesn't know it. If he wanted what Anatoly did, I would have made it happen, but he seemed to want everything I had to teach, not just the art, the cons, the history, literature...that brilliant mind hungry for me to fill. Yeah, that was Neal." Peter uttered a groan of frustration. How could Moz care so much about Neal and yet not care that he walked the crooked path that led to prison? OooOooO

Jones had finally sat down. It had been two hours since Gregorvitch had left. Jones feet no longer wanted to play the role of bodyguard. Diana appeared engrossed in a book. She had nerves of steel.

When Diana had first signed on a probationary agent, Jones had resented her, but he was long over that. She was an asset to the team and she could keep Peter in check the way Jones could not. Diana could let the boss know when he was getting out of line and when his expectation for his subordinates was out of line.

Jones had chosen to stay when he had been the probie. He liked being under the best and he liked Peter's sometimes caustic humor. He was learning and not yet ready to seek beyond Peter's tutelage. He had not yet met the agent who could offer more.

Diana's return was good. Good for Peter. Good for Neal. Ultimately, Jones regarded that as his good too.

Jones heard the door open and slipped into persona, taking his stance behind Diana who continued to read until Gregorvitch grunted and said, "You tell the spirits they have what they demanded. My punk of a son."

"The spirits say that they want him to be happy," Diana reminded.

"I'll make him happy," Gregorvitch said. He added, "Whatever it takes. Buy him an art gallery. Some of those critic fellows to write about him."

"I don't need you to buy me critics, father. I am good enough. I don't need you at all. I thought you needed me."

"Your mother was a mistake. You were a mistake, but I can do better. I just need your mother and your aunt to leave me alone." Gregorovitch said. He moved heavily across the room and out. "You, lady, you can go, but not far, in case those witches won't be still."

Alone, Jones said, "We think he has Neal in the basement. If you can down there, all you have to do is text us. We'll get him out."

"It might take some time to get away from my father," Gregorovitch's son said.

"Do what you have to," Diana said. She gave the man her phone number.

With that, Jones and Diana left the mansion, hoping to return with guns and warrants.

OooOooO


	8. Chapter 8

OooOooO

Waiting for the call from Anatoly wore Peter out. Moz was dozing in the armchair, having seemed to have mastered the art of sleeping anywhere or in any position. Peter meant to rest his eyes a few moments, but the moment he closed them, he felt powerless over the weight of sleep.

Sleeping, Peter was sitting with Neal and Kate at the Café Fouquet. Neal leaned across the table, all smiles and said, "El can fly over with Moz and Satchmo. I'm so glad you decided to get on the plane with Kate and I."

But that wasn't what happened, Peter wanted to argue.

"I'm famished," Neal said.

"There's a bug in my soup," Kate said. "We have to leave, Neal."

Peter agreed. He said, "I want a hamburger or Italian."

"But I'm starved," Neal argued.

"You can't eat here," Kate said, gazing into Peter's eyes. "You must not eat or drink here."

Peter heard it as absolution from Kate. He nodded, accepting Neal into his hands. Kate leaned close to her lover, cupping his face with her hands. "Go with Peter. He'll take care of you, my love."

Looking puzzled, Neal kissed Kate. She took his hand and guided it to Peter's. "Go love."

Neal's hand in his, Peter walked away from the cafe. Neal seemed dazed, leaning against Peter. He didn't look behind him, but Peter turned, seeing the Cafe Fouquet dissolve, Kate fade into a swirl of gold, a sad smile on her face.

"Why isn't Kate going with us?" Neal asked. His eyes were hazy blue, his lips softly apart.

"Kate has someplace to go where you can't go quite yet. She wants me to take care of you."

"I can take care of myself," Neal replied. He frowned at Peter's expression and said, "I can."

"Yeah, sure," Peter said and took a firmer grip although he wasn't sure where they were going. He saw a familiar door that appeared amidst a tangle of vines and graffiti in French. Room 31. The number of the motel room at which Moz and Peter were staying. Peter opened it and carried Neal inside.

"But there's no food here," Neal complained. "I'm hungry and thirsty. Peter, you said we could eat."

"In a little while," Peter promised. "Sleep with me."

Now humor danced across Neal's face and he said, "I thought you would never ask."

Peter laughed and guided Neal onto the bed. Neal shivered and said, "I'm cold to the bone, Peter. Cold, hungry, thirsty."

"We're going to get you out, bring you home. I promise. Soon."

"I want chicken soup," Neal said. "I want El to make me chicken soup."

"She will," Peter promised. He gathered Neal in his arms and held him.

Although Peter was puzzled about how he could sleep in a dream, he did feel himself sink deeper in sleep, holding Neal tight, hoping somehow he could keep him here, safe.

OooOooO

Flopped on the bed, Diana did not look her usual well controlled self. She had stripped down to a sleeveless shell. She was not quite asleep. Jones dozed beside her. Hs gentle snores left no doubt that he was one hundred percent in the land of the sandman. Peter gazed at them fondly, tumbled like two puppies together.

Sighing, Peter glanced at Diana's phone, willing it to ring. Moz huddled at the table, rocking slightly. Peter couldn't blame him, two of his students in danger.

When the phone rang, Peter nearly dropped it. He thumbed the unfamiliar configuration and finally found the right key. "Peter Burke"

"It's Anatoly," Moz's first protegee said. "Your guy is in the basement as everyone thought. He's in my mother's sensory deprivation tank. I heard the guards talking. They haven't been feeding him or giving him water. My father has me painting icons. Your friend is being kept alive just in case I'm not good enough. You can count on my dear old dad to give me the vote of confidence. You want me to get the keys to the elevator?"

"No, stay safe. We'll get a search warrant this time."

"Are you sure? My mom died in there in less than a day. Your guy..."

"My guy is doing okay," Peter said. A skeptic by nature, he still believed in the tells that Neal was alive and his essence communicating with Peter.

"How do you know?"

"I know. Neal told me."

Peter said, "Don't do anything stupid. Stay safe."

"I can take care of myself," Tony said.

"Right.

"I can!"

Peter had that feeling he got when Neal was out of his sight. Trouble in the offing.

"Can you get your affidavit to the delivery site?"

"Yeah, I told dear old Dad that I had a date."

OooOooO

Moz picked at imaginary lint on Peter's suit, his gaze surveying Peter's grooming. "Look sincere."

"I am sincere," Peter said, trying not to let his exasperation show.

"It looks more like constipation," Moz said, his head cocked to one side and his mouth in a moue of disappointment.

"It does not!" Peter said. "Now leave me alone. I have been to court hundreds of times."

"Yeah, but this is about Neal..."

"So don't throw me off my game," Peter replied.

OooOooO

The judge as Diana and Jones had said was full of herself. She was a well kept middle aged woman, older than Peter. Her hair style looked casual but Peter knew from El's tutelage that it probably cost more than Peter's suit. Her clothing consisted of designer labels, making Peter have a brief fantasy about investigating her finances.

Peter stood with the Federal prosecutor. Because Neal's situation was being presented as a kidnapping, they were able to use the Federal system. The judge still looked unimpressed. She said, "This affidavit seems terribly convenient."

"It's not," Peter said, ignoring the horror-struck look from the prosecutor who would have to continue to present cases before this self opinionated judge. "A man put himself into terrible danger to get this affidavit before you. You should have trusted the trace evidence we brought you before. As it is, my consultant is in grave danger, possibly dying."

"So noted," the judge said. She obviously would have preferred to continue to withhold the warrant, but she signed it with a look of disgust.

As Peter left, flanked by Diana and Jones, his phone rang. "It's Tony. Irina, one of the maids, said she went to the basement and tried to take care of Neal. He's in bad shape and this bastard of a guard stopped her. I'm going to get down there."

"No, Tony, don't..."

Just like Neal.

The phone call ended with Peter still arguing.

"We have to go in now," Peter said. "Diana, do we have local back up."

"On the way, boss."

"Then we go."

It was the closest that Peter felt to his old self since the day he lost Neal.

OooOooO


	9. Chapter 9

OooOooO

Someone was tapping his face. Neal felt so weak and his body ached all over. His mouth was so parched that his tongue felt stuck to the bottom of his mouth. He was cold, shivering, and was lying in fetid feeling water. He felt confused and then humiliated, thinking he had wet himself.

Blue eyes gazed down at him. "You okay?"

Taking inventory, Neal had to admit that he was not. He felt nauseous. His head floated and he had to fight sleep which pulled at him as if he was sinking in an ocean of weariness. He vaguely remembered sitting in a cafe with Kate and Peter. Then Kate had kissed him goodbye and Peter had taken him by the hand, leading him away. He had to wonder why he had gone so passively. Why had he not fought to stay with Kate?

"Who are you?" Neal asked this stranger.

"Anatoly Gregorovitch in this house. Tony Jenkins in the art world."

"Oh, Moz's protegee."

"His first," the man replied. He frowned.

"We look a lot a like."

"Guess Moz has a type," Anatoly said. "Let's get you out of there."

Trying to get up, Neal creating waves, wincing at the smell emerging from the tank.

"Let me drain this thing," Anatoly said, fiddling with the control panel.

The putrid fluid drained away slowly.

"Oh, damn," Anatoly said as the elevator moved upwards. "I thought everyone was in the attic. They thought there was an intruder up there."

Moving was excruciating. Anatoly's nose was wrinkled and he kept wincing. Neal said, "Listen. Get me in the shower. Maybe I can pull myself together after that."

Anatoly said, "I doubt that. You don't look good."

"Thanks. You must have learned diplomacy from Peter."

"Ah, the Suit."

That made Neal smile. "Yeah, my keeper."

After dragging Neal into the shower, Anatoly grabbed a chair and helped Neal into it. "You are skin and bones."

"I think they stopped pumping food into me."

Neal couldn't help drinking some of the water cascading down on him.

"Sorry," Anatoly said. "No cups." Glancing anxiously back, eyes wide and mouth in a white line, Anatoly said, "Elevator must be stuck. Do you hear something?"

Neal concentrated and now he heard bellowing and then a man screaming. "No, Eleni! God, Isadora! Please. Saint Christopher protect me."

Anatoly's hands shook, but he handed Neal a washcloth and soap. "Nothing we can do about it."

"It's your mother and aunt," Neal said.

"Or the ghosts of his long dead conscience."

"Anatoly, I think you should try to stop them. Save him."

"Why?"

"It's your father no matter how much you hate him," Neal said, his voice a thin rasp.

"What would you know about that?"

"I know."

Anatoly headed for the elevator and leaned against the door. "Mother, Aunt Izzie? Don't kill him. Don't let him make you into him!"

"Mother?"

The third time Anatoly said it, the elevator slid to their floor and the door opened. Neal could see the two dark haired beauties standing over the huddled lump of Gregorovitch on the floor.

"Is he?" Neal asked.

Anatoly knelt, turned his father over. Vacant eyes gazed at him and then Gregorovitch smiled broadly. "Casmir? Brother, oh, brother, you live. I didn't mean it. I was tired of you winning our races and when you had the cramp, I just meant to enjoy you losing. I'm glad you didn't die this time."

Shocked, Anatoly drew back. Gregorovitch rocked on the floor. He muttered in Russian, speaking to someone no one else could see. Up above, Neal could hear the distant sound of gunshots...one of the least welcome things that Peter's partnership brought to his life. Oh, joy, oh happiness, Neal was probably going to be shot by Russian thugs in the all together. And he wouldn't even look his best given the beastly treatment he had been enduring.

OooOooO

When armed people burst into the room, Anatoly jumped in front of Neal to protect him. Since one of them was Peter, this resulted in Moz's first protegee being shoved roughly aside so Peter could inspect Neal before bundling him in his jacket. It didn't cover much, but it was thoughtful. Too bad Neal spoiled any benefit by tumbling to the floor when Peter and Jones tried to carry him onto the elevator in their arms. He must have wiggled before they had a good grip. Sprawled naked except for the tangle of Peter's jacket, Neal saw the ceiling swirl and dissolve. Peter knelt and gathered him in his arms. He was safe. Time to rest.

OooOooO

Once Peter had taken Neal's pulse...two or three times, he was ready to have a look at Gregorovitch's den. The mobster sat in a corner, having a conversation in Russian with the air.

Anatoly said, "I don't think you'll be able to prosecute my father, not like this."

"Too bad," Peter said. He was furious. He felt as he did when someone threatened El. Somewhere between catching Neal and losing Neal, Peter's strong and unruly heart had decided that Neal belonged in the citadel where only El resided before.

Anatoly dropped his eyes and said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't gloating. He meant to either kill me or pummel me into his image. I don't love him." Anatoly hunched his shoulders and gave a small shake of his head. "Moz was more a father to me then hum." He winced as he looked at his father and then back at Peter. "Still I don't like seeing him like this."

Peter patted Anatoly on the shoulder wordlessly, his thought moving ahead to Moz's second protegee that Peter had taken for his own.

OooOooO

An IV fed into Neal's arm. He was as pale as the sheets, the hollows of his face looked like bruises against his yellow pallor. Peter carefully sat on the bed. Neal's eyes fluttered open.

"You promised me chicken soup."

Peter had. In the last dream he had.

Smiling, Neal reached towards Peter until Peter gently took his hand. "You led me by the hand and asked me to sleep with you."

Ignoring the faint roll of heat across his cheeks, Peter said, "The chicken soup is on the way. El didn't want to wait until you are strong enough to fly home."

"Missed her."

It was hard to resist fussing over Neal, but Peter disengaged his hand, contented himself with a pat on the hand without the IV. "You get well. We have work to do."

"I'm still hungry, Peter."

"As soon as the doctors say yes, there will be your lobster ravioli, eggplant cannelloni, your violet and broken almond shortbread, and your ten dollar glasses of wine," Peter said, reciting what Neal had ordered at the Cafe Fouquet.

"And how am I getting that?"

"Anatoly knows a chef who formerly worked at Cafe Fouquet."

"A good man, that Anatoly."

"Moz knows how to pick them."

"He does," Neal agreed, his eyelashes fluttering closed. Drowsily, Neal added, "Thank you for working with Moz to save me. It made me feel ..."

Sleep gobbled the last word, but Peter knew what it was. Loved. Neal felt loved.

Just a quick stroke to brush Neal's hair from his forehead. It didn't mean anything. Really. It didn't.

OooOooo

Neal woke with a clearer mind. He had been awake for brief intervals, knew that he was seldom alone. Moz was there. Peter most of the time. Once Anatoly.

Opening his eyes, Neal looked at Jones. "Hey."

"Hey. Welcome back, man. Peter went to the airport to get Elizabeth."

"Good," Neal said.

"You should have seen Diana and me undercover. We smoked. I was the bodyguard in a muscle shirt and spangled vest. I'm going to hang on to the outfit for Halloween."

"Wish I had seen it."

"Yeah, well, it was a good con," Jones said. "Diana was a psychic. Made Gregorovitch think that his wife's ghost was haunting him."

"A good con," Neal said. He shut his eyes, seeing in his head the twin beauties that had appeared to him. Not a con. Real ghosts.

Jones' wide grin and ducked head brought Neal from his momentary triste. Neal said, "Tell Diana that I want pictures of the pair of you."

"Yeah, I can get some," Jones said.

"Hey, what's going to happen with Gregorovitch's money? Is it going to be all tied up with a tax investigation and victim's compensation?"

"Not all of it, turns out the guy had a good head for investments. There are several sources of revenue that look clean."

"He has another kid on the way, the cook, Kesinia, is pregnant."

"Yeah, your 'brother', Anatoly, is going to make arrangements to care for her and the boy."

"That's good."

Neal was tired again and wishing for Peter and El. The lonely misery of his childhood he had tried so hard to leave behind haunted him. It stirred something, having Anatoly described as his brother. Funny, he had never liked the idea of Anatoly and he thought of Moz as more of a big brother than a father. However, Neal knew he prided himself on how well he had eclipsed Moz's first student. He was the one who took everything Moz had to offer and exceeded his teacher in everything. So much better than a minor artist who ran an obscure art gallery. He had never even asked to meet Anatoly. He was too fond of his self image of needing nothing except Kate to admit jealousy, but whenever Moz went to visit Anatoly, Neal made sure he had something else to do.

"I'll let you get some rest," Jones said.

The silence after his friend left seemed to press on Neal. He looked around at the green walls of the room and sighed. He was too weak to read and the TV did not interest him. He rang the bell and a nurse came in, the young blond one. He said, "They said that maybe I could eat something."

Blue eyes twinkled and the woman said, "Yes, they did.'

Weak broth, juice, and jello was not what he had in mind, especially after Peter had recited his favorite menu from Fouquet's, but his shriveled stomach would accept any fuel even if he had to be fed like a baby. He flirted mildly with Nurse Soto. Not that he was interested; it was just the image after all.

Even the passive role and the sop of a meal tired Neal out. He felt drowsy and hoped that his dream would take him back to the Cafe Fouquet, but if he dreamed, he was not in that strangely lucid state in which he had found himself when in the isolation chamber. No Kate. No ghosts. No Peter to hug.

OooOooO

El insisted on stopping at a store and then to the Home Inn suite to which Peter had transferred. Moz had moved from the shabby motel as well, no longer willing to have the suits know where he was staying. Strange, loyal little man.

The soup takes time to simmer into the golden elixir that El made. She always says it was her love that made the soup good, but Peter suspects it was that she cooked the chicken in broth and took such care to make the chicken pieces small. The noodles were fresh made. At home, El might have made them herself, but here she magically knew which shop has freshly cut noodles in trays ready to soak up flavor as the packaged ones never did. The steam colored El's cheeks, made sweat curls around her face, made her even more beautiful. His El...

Peter's hands found her hips and his head rested in the curve of her neck. She was his strength. He drew her scent into his nostrils. Neal had leaned into him like this, ethereal Neal. That told him something but his mind skirted from it. It was enough that Neal was safe and soon they would fly home where Peter would keep a closer eye on him. Keep him safe.

Peter slept peacefully and dreamlessly on the bed while the soup finished. He needed the rest, but he missed Neal.

OooOooO

Neal woke to chicken soup and kisses. The kisses and the soup were from El. He smiled at her and she kissed him again. "We never gave up."

"I know. I knew Peter would find me. He promised."

Pulling out her comb, El set to work on his hair. He relaxed into her care, cub to a very lovely lioness. El always knew how to make Neal feel better and what he needed, including looking his best.

"May I have some soup now?" Neal asked. "Peter wouldn't let me eat anything."

"You can't hold that against me. It was a dream. I thought if you ate there, you would have been trapped in that world."

"With Kate," Neal said yearning. But really... he was in no hurry to die. He did as Peter said have something good in this world.

Grinning, Neal said," I guess you fared better than Demeter. I didn't even eat one pomegranate seed."

"Of course," Peter said, "I'm very good at what I do."

El unpacked the picnic basket Peter had carried in. It contained a thermos of soup, a linen placemat and soft napkin as well as a sterling spoon. He smiled at it all; El had style as distinct as Neal.

Moz popped in just as El finished. He was accompanied by Anatoly who had a rather stunned look.

"Anatoly just won the DeLand Award."

The DeLand was nationally known, a very select art show. Neal had always dismissed juried shows, preferring to make his mark fooling curators and cops.

With a shrug, Moz added, "And found out his father's accounts will make him and his little brother wealthy."

"So I suppose you will be staying in Florida?" Neal asked, moving closer to El for comfort.

"Here? With all that media scrutiny? Might as well invite big brother to scan my retinas and put a chip in me." Moz said.

"Besides, you need looking after. Taking up with Feds, getting kidnapped, you're the one I have to keep an eye on."

Neal smiled as Anatoly winked at him.

Neal didn't need to win awards. He had something more valuable in mind.

Love was always his to steal away.

The end


End file.
